


Bruises on your knees

by Saetha



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drugging, Flint gets captured, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Revenge, They bang, Vane frees him, Vane takes care of him as he pretends he doesn't, Violent Sex, Whumptober 2020, it's like 2x10 reloaded basically?, shackled, they kill people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “You,” Flint rasps, his voice brittle from the echo of the screams still stuck in his throat.“Me,” the shape confirms. There is the jingle of keys and then the manacles holding up his arms over his head disappear. Dignity and defiance step back into the shadows as he falls forward, a shout wrangling its way through his lips as his body tries (and fails) to remember what it is like to move. A rough hand grabs him under the shoulder before he can fall completely.“No time. The distraction will not last forever. We need to leave.”*After the events in Charlestown, Flint is getting careless. Vane saves him from getting hanged, but the recovery takes time. Until they finally wreak bloody havoc on those who wronged Flint and enjoy the spoils of victory. Well, that and each other.Written for Whumptober Day 1: LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Charles Vane
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	Bruises on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this a super quick snapshot-style fic for Whumptober. But then my dearest friend said this…
> 
> Trash noodle, 10:13 PM  
> >I like the idea of them teaming up again and raising hell  
> >and then banging each other's brains out
> 
> Glob, 10:13 PM  
> >hnfhfnfhhfhf  
> >u mean: 2x10 reloaded
> 
> Trash noodle, 10:13 PM  
> >exactly
> 
> Well, okay then. Last time I wrote fic for these two was in *checks notes* 2016. I am, it appears, never far away from my bullshit where they are concerned (although I’d like to think that my writing has improved at least a little over the past four years). Enjoy :)

Seven days.

Seven days that feel like months. Seven days, bleeding into one another, until he barely knows where one ends and the other begins. Seven days, until the cramp in his shoulders has turned into searing agony, the ache in his ribs into an anvil that makes it hard to breathe, the wound in his leg into fever burning so brightly that it bathes the entire room in a haze of red. It is only interrupted by flickers of white, Miranda’s spectre coming to haunt him even now.

When the door to his cell is opened on the seventh day, it is all that Flint can do to raise his chin in an illusion of defiance, if only to convince himself that he will go this death proudly. He does not know how they will hang a man who can barely even stand. The fever has pulled a veil in front of his eyes, smudged the outlines of the form who is closing in on him. The light of the torch is painfully bright. The form comes closer, until its face resolves into a shape that is far too reminiscent to be any of Colonel Johnson’s brutal guards.

“You,” Flint rasps, his voice brittle from the echo of the screams still stuck in his throat.

“Me,” the shape confirms. There is the jingle of keys and then the manacles holding up his arms over his head disappear. Dignity and defiance step back into the shadows as he falls forward, a shout wrangling its way through his lips as his body tries (and fails) to remember what it is like to move. A rough hand grabs him under the shoulder before he can fall completely.

“No time. The distraction will not last forever. We need to leave.”

 _Don’t touch me_ , is what Flint wants to say, but all that comes out is a strangled groan. The shape grunts in reply, hoisting Flint’s arm over his neck with one hand and grabbing him unceremoniously around the hip to support him with the other. Flint must have lost consciousness at some point or another because the next thing he remembers is the smell of the ocean in his nostrils and the familiar rolling of a ship beneath his feet. Vane’s body is a steady weight next to him, supporting him across the deck step by step. Opening his eyes seems like far too much effort, but he thinks he can hear a few familiar voices, his name being shouted once or twice, causing a stray thought to flicker through his mind. _His men. He cannot show any weakness in front of his men._

Then his injured leg jostles against a wooden post and the world around him goes black again.

*

The next time he wakes, he is still on board a ship. Not his, he realises quickly – the cabin is too unorderly, slightly too small, the lack of books far too noticeable for this to be the _Walrus_. His entire body aches, and there is a warning throbbing in his leg that experience tells him will turn into a storm of agony as soon as he tries to move. The haziness from the fever is mostly gone, although his body feels brittle and fragile, burnt too long and thoroughly from the inside. Someone has cleaned and bandaged all his wounds – the various scrapes all over his skin, his cracked ribs, the stab wound in his leg, the patches where his wrists had been rubbed raw by the manacles. The idea that someone would handle his body when he is unconscious makes something inside him lurch unpleasantly, despite the obvious necessity for it.

He has just begun to wonder whether the obvious effort and pain it would take for him to sit up is worth the cost when the door to the room opens, and Charles Vane strides through. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair as the door closes behind him. His gaze roams across the room until it meets Flint’s.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“An astute observation,” Flint grinds out. His voice has improved nothing in quality since the cell, its timbre almost resembling Vane’s own rasp. Vane only raises an eyebrow at Flint’s reply.

“It seems that your imprisonment hasn’t made you any less irritating.” He fills a tin cup with water and places it next to Flint, who, as he only now notices, is in fact occupying Vane’s bed. Flint eyes the water with wary caution, until Vane rolls his eyes and takes a sip.

“After I went through all the trouble of staging a rescue mission, hauling your ass out of prison and all the way back to my ship, and asking my surgeon to patch you up, poisoning you would be a waste of effort. Besides, I thought we were partners now.”

There is little that Flint can say in return, so he reaches out towards the cup. Drinking takes him far longer than it should have, but at least he manages with only a modicum of pain and spilling less than half of its contents, although every spilled drop is one too many under the watchful gaze of Vane’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he finally forces out. The words grate like sandpaper on his tongue. Although they might have shared a few quick trysts once or twice, there is no love lost between them. There has never been. Vane acknowledges his words with a nod of his head.

“Seeing you hanged would have fucked everyone’s morale,” he shrugs, although there is a decidedly smug glint in his eyes. “I only did what was necessary, which…” he walks close, casting a critical glance over Flint, his still pale and damp skin, and the bandages peeking out at various places. “…why _was_ it necessary in the first place? A pirate of your renown should know better than to brazenly stroll into the nearest British garrison with nary a thought as to his own safety.”

“There was information we needed.” It isn’t a lie, not really – but neither is it the true reason. Vane knows as well as him that Flint has been taking more and more risks lately, with very little regard to his own person. The moment that the rapier had pierced his leg and the soldiers had begun to lay into him with their boots and the butts of their guns had almost been a relief.

“Mhm.” Vane only grunts in response. “I hope the information was worth it.” He throws a meaningful glance at the leg that is still mostly hidden beneath the covers.

“How bad is it?” Flint gestures down at the offending limb. Vane shrugs.

“You’ll get to keep the leg,” he offers. “Although you won’t be using it for a good while. Had to cut out a few bad bits that were gone too far, and the fever from it almost ate you up. A day longer and the _Walrus_ would have had to search for a new captain.”

Flint sighs and leans back into the bed.

“And why am I here?”

“You are here because we took one ship. And the _Ranger_ is the fastest. Half your crew, half mine, to avoid any…” a sneer crosses Vane’s face, “ _unfortunate accidents_ befalling you on the journey.”

Flint heaves an annoyed sigh. For a moment, the wish to be back home with Miranda, with Thomas, somewhere that he can feel safe with no need for masks and pretence, is an almost physical ache. But, of course, he cannot. There is no home to return to, except the clamours of the dead that keep drowning him at night. For just a second, the pang of loss inside him is so painful that it makes it hard to breathe.

“Why am I _here_? In your cabin?” he finally asks again.

“Where else would you be?” Vane leans against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. I does nothing to distract Flint from the shape of his shoulders, the thin curve of his hips. The knowledge that he knows exactly what is beneath the fabric and leather of his clothing does not help, either. “The surgeon said that you needed a quiet space to recover, so I gave you one.”

“Ah. Because you are the paragon of quiet recovery.” Now it is Flint’s turn to raise his eyebrow in obvious amusement. Vane doesn’t rise to the obvious bait, letting the silence stretch between them until it is interrupted by the grumbling of Flint’s stomach.

“I have already sent for food. Dinnertime is shortly,” Vane says with a wave of his hand. “What is truly important to discuss, however, is how we are going to repay Colonel Johnson and his soldiers for all of _this_.” He gestures at the general state of Flint’s body.

 _We_. Not _you_.

Flint takes a deep breath, deliberately feeling every single ounce of pain travelling through his aching body at the motion. He knows that retribution is necessary, that they have an image to uphold, an illusion of strength that cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to shatter. No matter how tired he is deep inside, no matter how a part of him longs to leave the sea behind and walk far away from it, he has come too far in his plan to abandon it all. He is caught in this dance, whether he wants to or not, and will have to follow the steps to the end, no matter whether it is bitter or sweet.

“We will make plans,” he allows. “And Johnson will pay. Not only for me, but for the bodies still dangling from the walls of his fort, and for those he sunk at sea three weeks ago.”

“Good.” Vane seems to want add something else, but before he can speak, the door opens and a man who Flint recognises as the ship’s surgeon walks through, bearing both medicinal supplies and some food and drink with him.

Flint eyes him warily, but there is nothing for it. The man’s care has saved his life already, he supposes, and so it would be useless to resist. Besides, the faster he will be able to leave and go back to his ship, the faster he will be able to return to wreak havoc on Johnson and his men. He casts a glance at Vane that could not have signalled him to leave any more clearly, but Vane seems entirely unimpressed, remaining in his position even as the surgeon begins to remove the dressing from his wounds. Flint hisses at the discomfort, anger at the weakness of his own body overtaking him more and more with every second. The skin over his ribs is sprawling shades of black and blue, but the leg is by far the worst. It looks as bad as it feels, a circle of skin and muscle simply missing where they’d had to cut the rotting flesh away to save both his limb and life.

Vane remains quiet throughout, handing the surgeon his instruments when asked, fetching fresh bandages and carrying the bloodied ones away. It doesn’t take long for Flint to become twitchy from the pain as the surgeon continues, the skin around his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip as he digs his fingertips into the splintery wood of the bedstead he is lying on. A low growl is the only noise that escapes his throat, through teeth clenched so tightly that he thinks they might break.

A weight lands on his shoulder, heavy and grounding. Fingers digging into his skin, not gentle or soft, but suffused by an understanding that goes beyond words. Vane doesn’t say a single word, but his hand remains, steady as an anchor.

The surgeon pronounces him well enough to let him eat some broth afterwards, still under Vane’s watchful eyes. Although Flint feels as weary as life itself, he pushes himself up against the wall as he eats. The surgeon, packing up his instruments, frowns at the sight.

“I know that, as a captain in your own right, it is within your power to shirk my advice, but you should rest. Time and rest are as important as any medicine during recovery.” He exchanges a quick glance with Vane, who simply shrugs and nods towards the door.

“He speaks some truth, you know,” Vane says, as soon as the man is gone.

“You as the voice of reason. A strange sight.” Flint sighs and sets the empty bowl and spoon aside. “There is no time to rest. Plans need to be made, there is a war effort that has to be overseen. I have lost enough time already. You cannot keep me from talking to my men.”

“I will not.” Vane’s eyebrows rise up as he watches Flint trying to climb out of the bed, pausing every few moments to catch his breath and fight down the agony. “But your leg, most likely, will.”

Flint only glares at him. He begins to feel more tired by the moment, but there are far too many things to be done. The room begins spinning around him when he has one foot on the ground, however, and one hand on his pants with a vague thought of putting them on. He has to hold on to the edge of the bed to keep from keeling over. However, the spinning does not abate, and he has to close his eyes as he sinks back into the bed.

“What did you do? You-” he murmurs. _The broth_. He thought it had tasted funny. Flint tries to feel rage, or fear, but it is dwarfed by the all-encompassing desire to sleep. There is a rustle as Vane steps up next to him and a gentle tugging at his fingers as he takes the pants from his hand.

“Saved you from doing irreparable harm to yourself and thus, Nassau,” he grunts. “Sleep.”

Resistance seems to be of little use. Flint thinks he can feel Vane’s strong hands lift him back into the bed, but it could as well have been a dream.

*

“Are you sure about this?” Vane’s voice is so quiet that nobody but Flint could have heard him. They are both wearing black clothing, wrapped around their bodies and heads, leaving nothing but their hands and eyes bare.

Flint looks over to him ever so briefly, resisting the urge to touch his leg where the wound is still itching and twinging. Perhaps they should have waited another week, just as the surgeon had suggested, but today another dignitary had visited Colonel Johnson and there had been a big dinner in celebration. It had been the matter of a few well-placed bribes to the kitchen girls who have no love lost for the man that keeps trying to cornering them, or any of his brutes, and the vast majority of the soldiers in the garrison are dead asleep, including the ones that were supposed to stand watch.

“Yes,” he says, just as quietly. “We would not get another chance like this for months.” Besides, five more pirates are currently languishing in the same cells that held Flint several weeks ago. Vane only nods in reply.

He has been almost pensive these past few days, much more so than Flint has ever seen him. Flint has caught him brooding more than once, forehead creased in thought, stealing glances whenever he thought Flint wasn’t aware. He’d been waiting for the energy between them to explode, to unload itself in either fists or lips on his flesh, or perhaps both.

The screech of a barn owl sounds through the night and Flint gives Vane a nod.

As planned, the guards at the gate are fast asleep. Flint is of half a mind to spare them their lives and do nothing but restrain them, but a second look makes him recognise at least one of the faces. His ribs ache in phantom pain at the memory of the man’s boots stomping into them, and soon the blood pools black in the shadow of the moonlight. Most other guards prove a similarly small challenge. Vane leads a bunch of his men down to the cells, to free the pirates who have been imprisoned. Flint leads his own contingent towards the main hall, where Colonel Johnson and his visitors are still feasting.

None of them offer any real resistance. Flint lets his rage carry him, heaping his revenge for the wounds on his own body and those of countless other men and women on everyone in the hall. His weapon is stained red when he is done, the barrel of his pistol hot and smoking. Adrenaline surges through his body, his lips drawn back in a snarl as the beast inside him rampages, its fury unleashed. There are screams from the outside and he turns back around, to find that there is one cluster of guards who evidently didn’t drink whatever draught had the sedative slipped into it.

Flint barrels into them without a second thought, perversely grateful for the chance at a real challenge in this fight. His blade finds its aim in a man’s chest and he rips it out again, whirling around to face another soldier. He catches the thrust aimed towards him and directs it aside, stepping into the man’s space and punching him in the throat. As his opponent staggers back, gagging and coughing, Flint follows him, slashing him open.

He notices the soldier coming up behind him too late, can barely twist aside in time so that the sword, meant to puncture his neck, only leaves a bloody groove on his shoulder instead. Still, the motion brings him off balance as he turns around, raising his weapon to block the next slash. He stumbles over the dead man’s boots behind him, falling to the ground, not enough strength in his arms to keep him from dying as the soldier’s blade comes down-

And clatters to the floor halfway through, let go by lifeless hands. The soldier that had attacked him has sunk to the floor, the hilt of a sword still protruding from his chest. Blood is rushing in Flint’s ears, his breathing quick and shallow as his body belatedly remembers to panic. His hands are shaking ever so slightly as he sits up and takes a deep breath. Vane steps around him, wrenching his weapon back out of the soldier’s body. He looks at Flint and just nods, then offers him a hand. Flint stares at it for a long moment before he takes it. The wound on his shoulder stings, but it isn’t serious – a few stitches might be required later, perhaps, but that will be about it.

The man Vane killed had been the last of the soldiers in the castle. They drag the bodies into the courtyard so they will be found the next morning and bear witness to the wrath of the pirates, but for now the nearest garrison is many miles away. There is little risk of them being found out tonight. Flint and Vane remain constantly moving, seeing to it that their men carry the extra supplies of gunpowder and provisions to their ships, the _Walrus_ having joined them a few days ago. They allow their crews to indulge in some of the food and drink that cannot be carried away, and the sounds of their merriment soon creep through the walls of the fort.

Somehow, instead of returning to the Walrus, Flint finds himself in the Colonel’s office, looking through the books. His hand travels across their spines, fingertips feeling the rough linen and leather they are bound in. Before Charlestown, he would have taken at least one of them home for Miranda to read, and a few more to keep for his own library. Now, however, even the thought of reading touches the place inside his chest where the splinter of Miranda’s death still festers. There is no familiar solace to be found in his books anymore, not when the grief is still so unbearably near.

“Find any books to your liking?” Flint hadn’t even heard Vane set foot inside the room. He turns to see him standing in the doorway, casually leaning against its frame, the strong lines of his body outlined in the light of the candle on the table. His eyes are glittering with something undefinable, body still thrumming with energy from the battle before, covered in sweat and blood as it is. He is holding a bottle in his hand, although it is still stoppered closed and evidently untouched.

Flint steps away from the shelf. The past is the past.

“No,” he says. Vane saunters into the room, closing the door behind him and dropping the bottle on the table. He follows Flint’s gaze towards it, a small smirk playing around his lips.

“Some fine vintage or another from the cellars. Thought it might be to the liking of an uptight bastard such as you.”

Flint only raises an eyebrow before he wanders over to the table, grabbing the bottle and reading the faded label.

“Good vintage indeed,” he admits, but doesn’t open it. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it not enough to want to share a drink after a hard day’s work?” Vane leans against the edge of the table, legs spread, and every inch of his body on very-much-not-accidental display. Flint snorts in reply.

“Fuck you, Charles,” he replies amicably. Vane smirks, placing both of his palms on the table and heaving himself up until he sits on its edge, with no care for the documents still spread out on it. He is still flushed from the events of the night, cheeks reddened from the adrenaline. There is a large fleck of dried blood on one, surrounding a fresh cut. Flint steps closer, very deliberately placing himself between Vane’s legs. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over the wound. A growl escapes Vane’s lips, his knuckles tightening around the edge of the table. He shifts, raises one of his knees until it comes to a rest right between Flint’s legs.

“If you are offering…” His gaze is nothing but not hungry. It wouldn’t be the first time, although they can never be sure that it won’t be the last. It is part of the thrill, Flint supposes. That way, at least, he can spare himself the thoughts of what it might become once the war is over.

“Strip,” he says, stepping out of Vane’s reach, over to the door, locking it. Vane barks out a laugh, but he complies – perhaps the only time he has ever accepted a request from Flint with no resistance. He does, however, make a show of it, is slow to take off his shirt and undo his belt. Flint would have laughed at his vanity if it hadn’t been so damn appealing; Vane’s cocksure arrogance and utter shamelessness were what had gotten them into this position more than once in the first place.

Flint sits down on the chair in front of him, close enough to touch if he wanted to. Vane bends down to kiss him, slow and filthy, as his hands work to begin stripping Flint of his shirt. Flint hisses under his breath when the fabric pulls at the edges of the wound on his shoulder, but Vane bites down on his lip, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through his body. Vane’s hands are calloused and rough on his skin, knowing where to touch to make Flint arch his back into him. Vane’s knee is on the chair and between Flint’s legs again, nudging against his rapidly hardening cock, its touch like fire even through the layer of his pants. Flint can feel Vane’s answering smirk against his lips, offers only a nominal amount of resistance when Vane’s fingers open the buckle of his belt. They move around, impatient fingers getting caught and slipping on fabric before they somehow land back on the chair, Vane’s fingers digging into Flint’s arse as he begins to move his mouth downwards, his teeth leaving marks that will burn bright come the morrow.

Not that Flint cares right now.

All that he cares about is the way Vane’s skin feels against his, the way his muscles move against him, taught and strong. His fingers tangle themselves in Vane’s hair, pulling, digging into Vane’s scalp as he undoes the leather ribbon holding the strands together. They fall around his head, spread on his shoulders and Flint’s naked knees as Vane traces a line down his stomach with his lips, before taking him into his mouth.

He has been a tease before, more than once, but not so today. His mouth works hard and fast, fingers digging into the soft skin over Flint’s hips where they are sure to leave bruises the next day. Flint bucks into him, gritting his teeth, not wanting to give in to the urge to come so embarrassingly quickly. He leans back his head, knocking it against the hard wood of the chair’s backrest, and feels a moan rise in his throat. Vane never relents, his tongue licking along the length of his cock, one fluid motion under Flint’s hands. He comes like this, fingers grasping at the strands of Vane’s hair, his throat and teeth bared to a world that has seen it fit to punish and reward him with a man like Vane in his life.

Vane swallows and Flint shudders in the aftermath as Vane crawls up his body again, pressing a kiss to his mouth, still carrying the taste of salt and blood on his teeth. His fingers dig into the wound on Flint’s shoulder, pleasure and pain mingling just right. Vane’s body feels fucking perfect against his, sticky with sweat and sex and still reeking of battle.

Flint rises from his seat, Vanes’ mouth still on his, and walks them backwards until Vane hits the edge of the table. Vane doesn’t even flinch, although he draws away from Flint for a moment to begin rifling through the table’s drawers, emerging triumphantly with a small flask of oil from where the colonel had been keeping his guns. Flint snorts, but he takes the flask all the same. His fingernails leave red grooves on Vane’s skin and Vane presses into his touch, hips rubbing against him until Flint feels himself getting hard again.

Vane gives a breathless laugh, nothing but challenge in every single curve of his far-too-perfect body. Flint fucks him right there, bent over against the Colonel’s table, one hand on Vane’s cock and the other splayed on his back, pressing his chest into the papers. Vane’s fingers grabble for purchase on the table, knocking over the inkwell but finding nothing to hold on to, even as he bucks up against him, urging him to go harder. Flint snarls something under his breath and so does Vane, an unintelligible string of noises that is nothing if not encouraging. Vane comes with a groan and a tremor that runs through his entire body as he spills hot over Flint’s hands and Flint follows shortly thereafter. For a moment they simply lie there, Vane’s hair like a halo on the table, its tips turning black from the ink, before Flint removes his hand from Vane’s back and runs his fingers down his spine in a touch that could almost be called gentle.

Vane is still breathing harshly, his chest rising and falling in an impressive display when he turns back around. There is a red line across his lower body, an imprint of what they were doing as heavy as any scar. Flint reaches out to touch it and Vane spreads his legs to make space for him between them, still covered in sweat and come, utterly without shame. He pulls Flint down towards him until he has to plant his hands to the left and right of Vane’s face to keep himself from falling on top of him. Vane hums in appreciation as his fingertips trail the muscles of Flint’s arms and shoulders before he forces down his neck for another kiss. And if Flint closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it for just one second, well, nobody ever has to know.

Flint’s gaze travels across the table and an involuntary laugh escapes him.

“Hm?” Vane tries to follow his line of sight, tilts back his head to bare the oddly vulnerable lines of his throat.

“The bottle is still whole,” Flint says, reaching out to grab the vintage Vane had brought earlier. His fingers are smudged with ink, leaving black imprints on the label.

“What better way to finish a satisfying fuck than with a good drink.” Amusement suffuses Vane’s voice as he sits up and stretches.

‘ _Satisfying’_ , indeed. Flint snorts. Unlike Vane, he doesn’t enjoy being naked continuously, so he cleans himself off as well as he can and fastens his breeches again. Vane, in the meantime, has found two cups and poured them a drink. Flint frowns as he sips from his mug.

“It has occurred to me that I have never fucked you sober before,” he says. Vane just smirks, tossing back his own drink as if it were the cheapest rum they have. He has seated himself on the table again, starkly naked and entirely at ease and satisfied, like a cat in the sun.

“It did not seem to dim your enjoyment.” He traces the red line drawn across his lower body. It has already begun to fade. “And neither did it mine, for that matter.”

Looking at Vane, it occurs to Flint what a strange pair they make – two men who would’ve killed each other without a second thought a mere year ago, whose names are now spoken with terror on the islands around them. Two men brought together by rage and loss, who know they will both go to hell if there is such a place, but who will do so with a righteous shout on their lips and no reservations. Two men who England would see dead, eradicated from history for who they are and what they did. Who will hold on with bloodied knuckles and bared teeth, to carve out a place where freedom is more than just a word. 

Flint raises his mug.

“To Nassau,” he says.

Vane toasts back, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“To us.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not even going to acknowledge how often I listened to Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy when writing those last bits. SIGH


End file.
